UnHero Complex
by Drink Sparky Cola
Summary: Set during episodes 10-11 Snap-Splash , Sully thinks about his mortality and his freewheeling ways while looking for the boat with Cal and comes to a few conclusions. Rated for swearing.


**Hey, I know I'm a little late to the game here, but I started watching Harper's Island last summer and never got past the first four episodes. However, I deftly avoided most spoilers, to keep the fun alive. Couldn't avoid all of them, sadly, and hearing the tidbit about Cal and Chloe dying is probably what took me so long to get back into the show. Recently I finally got to finish the series and though I have mixed feelings, I couldn't help but adore some parts... particularly the bromance that never was of Cal + Sully :D This story _really_ wanted to be written. I hope you enjoy it!**

I'm not a hero.

I'm not the kind of guy who volunteers for brave suicide missions or puts himself above everyone else or gets the girl... Alright, so I get my fair share of girls; let's face it, I'm pretty good looking. But that's not my point. My point is that I've never gotten a girl who looks back at me and really sees a knight in shining armor, so why I'm currently standing here about to run out into an open parking lot where in all likelihood I'll be shot down by some raving psychopath hiding in the dark with a sawed off is totally beyond me. That kinda stuff is really better off in the hands of my best friend Henry... or, believe it or not, that damn midget Englishman who somehow snagged Chloe, the hottest girl on the island. Hell, the hottest girl in a _lot_ of places...

I try not to turn and look back at that local girl, Abby's friend. I think her name is Nikki. She's pretty hot too, I guess. I don't know what possessed me to sweep her into a goodbye kiss. It was supposed to be a romantic gesture but it really just fell awkwardly flat. She was cool about it though, she didn't slap me or anything like I half expected. Still, I feel like sort of a dumbass for thinking it made sense but whatever, fuck it, I'm probably about to go down in a haze of bullets so I think I deserve to make out with a few hot blondes before I go, am I not? I should have just said 'to Hell with it' and gone for Chloe as well, but she _definitely_ would have slapped me. She's too in love with Cal.

Cal. I just don't get that guy. I mean _seriously_, what does she see in him? It's been bothering me since we got here for this damned wedding, and even through all the shit that's gone down it _still_ hasn't left my mind. How_ does_ a guy like that get a girl like Chloe? I mean, Henry and Trish, I get. Henry's pretty cool, and I can accept that Trish went for him over me, but _Cal_?! I'm still thinking about it even while we're making our mad dash to the car, and it's foremost on my mind when we both reach the driver's side at the same moment and he looks up at me with a bewildered look on his face. "CAL!" I shout, waving the keys in his face, angry at the waste of time.

"Right, America. Other side," he says, mentally slapping himself, but all that is cut short when a shot rings out and Cal recoils, falling against the car.

_Dammit! _As if everything else wasn't bad enough, the loser had to go and get himself shot too. I never should have signed up for this!

I lunge forward and grab the shorter man as he collapses, trying not to lose my grip on the gun as another shot inches from my head blows out the driver's side window. My hands are full and I've never been this terrified, but in the confusion I somehow manage to get the back door open wide enough to toss Cal inside. I'm sure it hurt, but there really isn't time right now to be gentle. I slam the door shut and duck inside the driver's side as another shot sprays glass everywhere, shards raining down on my neck and arms. I stuff Nikki's keys into the ignition and try turning it, but it's stuck and I've just about had enough of this shit. "C'mon, c'mon!" I shout through gritted teeth, willing the machine to comply.

"Jiggle it!" Cal says helpfully from the back seat and, taking his advice, the car rumbles to life. Feeling a long-overdue surge of victory, I slam my foot down on the gas pedal and give her all it's got, which admittedly isn't very much, but I don't care. Driving that beat up station wagon out of the parking lot, I felt like Vin Diesel. A couple more shots followed us out, but we were out of range, finally, and I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding, trying to focus on the road and not on Cal's labored breathing, while the erratic thumping in my chest timed itself with the commanding thought in my head, over and over again: _It could have been me, it could have been me, it could have been me_...

I drive for about fifteen minutes, gradually slowing down when I start to feel we've made it a safe distance away on an isolated cliffside road, but that feeling in my gut I hesitate to identify as fear is still there, even if we can't see the cannery anymore. I'm not gonna lie, that whole mess back there damn near had me wetting myself, but I stuff it back down when I hear Cal's little whimpers of pain in the back seat as he props himself up against the back seat. I look in the rear view mirror and see the pale-faced Brit trying to examine his own wound, but doing a piss poor job. I know he needs medical attention, and I know he's not going to request it, because he's too damn selfless, so I make the decision myself, grinding the car to a halt.

"Whoa, whoa whoa, why did we stop?" Cal asks.

I turn around to face him, "Oh, you're totally bleeding out—" I say, cringing at the amount of blood that is already drenching his shirt.

"No, no, no, we need to get to the boat!" he interrupts frantically.

"You need a doctor," I say, shaking my head.

But Cal's having none of it as he slaps a dirty newspaper on his shoulder to staunch the blood. "I AM a doctor and I'm ordering you to get us to the boat!" he insists, and I shake my head again and resume driving. Why does this idiot have to be such a saint? Why does it bother me so much? Well, my brain answers for me, it's probably because you're an asshole, and you'd never act so selflessly in his place, and it pisses you off that you're not as good a man as him... certainly not good enough for Chloe...

Oh man, why am I _still_ thinking about Chloe through all of this?! Chloe... she'd never forgive me if I came back without her boyfriend. So help me God, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I've got to save that little man. With an renewed sense of determination, I set off in the direction of town, where I know the clinic to be. There's no hospital on Harper's Island, nothing that even comes close, from what I remember, but surely they've got to have some sort of 24-hour place staffed... if they're not all dead, that is.

Steeling out the grim thought, I push the gas pedal down harder and before long I can see my destination. I just hope it's not _too_ long for Cal, who protests when I miss the turn off to the pier and make my detour into town.

"Where do you think you're going, I thought I told you to go the boat!" he protests feebly, biting back the pain. "You were supposed to turn off there."

"Yeah well, that's why _I'm _the driver and not you. Anyway, nobody likes a backseat driver, so shut your piehole and let me handle it!" Surprisingly, this seems to shut Cal up. Or maybe it's the blood loss. Either way, he doesn't complain this time, so I add, with the fortitude betraying my complete and utter fear, "And stop bleeding all over Nikki's seat. I don't want her on my bad side when I bring it back ruined. I get the feeling she's the kind of babe you don't want to piss off."

"Yeah, well, something tells me she may be in need of some supplemental car repairs anyhow, so I don't think new upholstery will be too much of a burden."

That's it, I think, make lame jokes. Keep talking, let me know you're still breathing. I pull into the clinic's parking lot, but it's empty and the building is dark, and I can already tell there's no one around. Still, have to try, I think, and shut off the engine, hoping to God that I can turn it on again when I need it. "Stay here, I'll be right back," I tell Cal, who gives me a withering look of 'where the Hell else am I going to go.' "Right, never mind..." I mutter and get out of the car, making sure not to leave the shotgun behind, and dash up the steps and pounding on the door with both fists.

"HELLO!" I shout, "IS ANYONE IN THERE?! We need some help out here!" But there's no answer, and I didn't think there would be. Well, we're coming in anyway, I think, as I test the door and, finding it locked, knock out a pane with the butt of the gun. Thank God for little Podunk towns with minimal security, I think as I reach inside and unlock the door. I'll worry about breaking and entering charges later; for now, I've got to get Cal inside.

Back at the car, the Brit hasn't moved, his eyes clenched shut and his arms limp at his sides and for one terrified moment I think he's dead, but then his lips move and he mutters something unintelligible, and I can breathe again. I go in from the passenger's side, hooking my hands in his armpits and pulling and that gets him to wake up for sure, an anguished cry making even me grimace. "Sorry," I say, and I really am. But I've got to move him somehow, and quick.

I pull the good arm over my shoulder and link my arm around his waist, taking the injured man's full weight. "Are you good?" I ask. "Can you walk?" And he nods feebly, but one step towards the clinic and he's down, collapsing in a heap and taking me with him. _God damn it_, I swear inwardly, glancing up at the star-encrusted night sky and whatever unmerciful God led me to this exact moment. _Are you kidding me, Little Man... you are _actually_ going to make me carry you?_

I glance nervously at the shotgun I left leaning against the car, and I don't like the idea of it leaving my hands for even a moment, but then I glance down at Cal and I know I haven't got a choice. Heaving a sigh, I pick him up and he's about as light as you'd expect a midget to be, but it's no easy task getting him inside and keeping him going at the same time. In the end, I end up doing most of the talking. "C'mon, stay with me, Cal." In the darkened clinic, I get him on the examination table and start rattling off every piece of first aid that comes to mind. "Alright, I'm gonna keep you warm, keep you talking—" I spin around and start pawing through the supplies on the shelves, though to be honest, I have no idea what I'm looking for. "Uhhh keep pressure on the wound—" _Please, stop me when something sounds good to you._

"You need to remove the bullet," Cal reminds me as I set some bandages down at his feet.

"Ha, right," I laugh half-heartedly, averting my eyes from Cal's pale face. Yeah, guess again dude. There's no way I'm digging around for a bullet in your shoulder. I'm not John McClane; this shit is way over my head, but I can't bring myself to meet his gaze when I tell him that. "Uh, okay, I'll bandage you up and I'm gonna go get the doc. That old dude, what's his name?" If this is his clinic, surely his house should be nearby, right?

"Well, then I'll be dead," Cal bursts my bubble and our eyes meet momentarily.

I shake my head vehemently. "No, look, the last time I played Doctor was in grade school." And let's face it, the kind of 'Doctor' I played with Cindy Lathrup under the 'Kissing Tree' on the playground is _definitely_ not the kind of 'Doctor' I want to play with Cal. Ever. Period. I shake my head once more, defeated and apologetic. "I can't do this."

"Well, this is different," Cal says, fighting to hold on to consciousness. "I'm gonna teach you." And he actually smiles. God, what an _asshole_.

There's a moment of silence as the weight settles on my shoulders. Still wheezing and sweating profusely, Cal manages to quip, "Go ahead and give it some thought. I'll just wait it out and bleed to death while you think over it."

"Alright, alright! Just... tell me what to do then."

God damn it, I can't _believe _I am doing this.

"OK... first things first... you need something to get the bullet out. There should be some forceps around here somewhere..." At my bewildered look, Cal clarifies. "That's a long metal thing, like tweezers or pliers." I paw through the junk I brought over to the table, but don't find anything remotely tweezer-like. It takes some rummaging in drawers to locate a long silver utensil that Cal agrees to. Returning to the table, I find Cal trying to undo the buttons on his shirt with violently trembling and bloodstained fingers, but I save him the effort and rip it open.

"I'll buy you another one," I joke feebly. "If we get off this island."

"You mean '_when_' we get off this island?"

"Yeah, sure," I flash a grin and try to avoid looking at the gaping bloody wound that I know is bothering him more than it's bothering me. There's too much going through my head right now. I know I should be focused on what I'm doing, but I can't help but divide my attention equally with the terrified dialogue running through my head. So many people are dead, and it's far from over. Who's next? Who's already gone? Will I survive this? I've seen my fair share of horror flicks and I can tell ya, guys like me don't always see our way to the end... It's that damn non-hero complex again. I'm not the one who gets Happily Ever After; maybe if I changed, maybe if I were more like Henry, whatever higher power is up there pulling the strings would see it fit to let me keep on living. It makes sense in a poetical kinda way, doesn't it?

_Dude, what the hell_ _are you _talking_ about? _I mentally chide myself before I let the tangent I've run off on go any further. I can't clear my head, but I've got to try, because there are pressing matters to deal with right now in the form of my severely injured pseudo-nemesis.

There's blood all over; it's so unreal. With Cal's instruction, I use the gauze I scrounged up to stop the bleeding, but I know the hardest part still awaits the both of us. I put on some rubber gloves, remove the forceps from the plastic encasing them and check the materials around me for the umpteenth time to make sure I've got everything. We both know I'm staving off the inevitable. _Alright, Sully, old boy, this is it. It's time to man up._ Put the big boy trousers on and do something right for a change...

"Alright, okay... brace yourself. I'm goin' in."

Cal chuckled weakly. "That's... what she said."

I can't help but roll my eyes. "Dude, don't be gay," I say, wiping the sweat from my brow with my sleeve. "This is tough for me as it is."

"Naturally, your comfort was foremost on my mind during this difficult time."

_That's it, smartass_. Without further hesitation, I plunge the medical instrument into the wound and lean in close. The power's still out on the island, but I managed to find a battery operated light to use. It wasn't much, but it was doing the trick. I try to ignore the urge to puke as I perform my little impromptu operation on Cal. I never figured myself one for squeamishness, but I guess this whole island-wedding-serial-killer thing is just bringing out the worst in me all around. I must have been digging around for about five minutes to no avail when Cal, who has been silently biting back the pain this whole time, says, "Any luck?"

"No," I say, removing the pliers. I feel frustrated and disappointed, but Cal just shakes his head.

"It's okay," he says encouragingly. "You're doing fine."

Except I'm _not_, and you're just being nice! God, I can't stand it anymore! Even with a bullet in his shoulder that annoying little man is still a bigger man than me. What is wrong with me?! "I just don't get it, man," I begin, redoubling my efforts to remove the bullet. "If I were you, right now I'd be howling like a stuck pig and everyone in a 2 mile radius would know it. You haven't made more than a squeak since this started. What _gives_?"

Cal opens his eyes but they remain focused on the ceiling. "Don't get me wrong, this is probably the most pain I've ever been in... though playing rugby with my older brothers when I was younger may in fact be a close second." I roll my eyes at yet another lame joke of his, but he's not done talking, and I realize I'm kind of grateful for that, because I need him to stay awake. I glance up briefly to see his eyes get all serious when he says, "I had been planning to give Chloe an engagement ring this week, at the wedding reception. I didn't see the likelihood of that reception occurring anymore, so I just gave it to her before we left... with the promise that I would return and propose to her good and proper and at least 95% assurance that she would say 'yes'. I guess the thought of getting back to her is the only thing keeping me strong right now."

Oh, _come onnnnn, _I think, rolling my eyes. Saint Vandeusen strikes again. "God, I hate you so much."

Cal lets out a bitter laugh, which is cut short by a groan. "Well, Sully, if it makes you feel any better, I'm not overly fond of you right now either."

_I can live with that_, I think, still probing inside the wound, and suddenly, I've found the bullet. "I've got it!" Feeling a surge of victory, I clamp down on the damn thing and resist the urge to yank it out, carefully removing the jagged little piece of metal so I don't lose it again and deposit it victoriously into the metal dish. "Alright, that's done, what's next?" I ask, standing up to remove the bloody gloves to the trash. There's no response, so I prompt again. "Cal? What do I do next?" I finally look up from the mess on the table to see the Englishman lying motionless and senseless and a sinking feeling makes itself known in the pit of my stomach. "C'mon, Cal, not after all that," I mutter and take a step toward the table. Placing two fingers on his neck, I'm relieved to find a faint pulse.

Relieved, but still irked that he passed out and left me to figure the rest out on my own. I sigh, looking around the messy room. "Now what?"

It takes me over an hour to get Cal cleaned up to a point where I feel comfortable letting him be. I put like a billion stitches in and it looks ugly but at least the bleeding's stopped. I don't know if Cal will be happy with what I've done when he comes to, whenever that'll be. I hope I did alright... I know my hand was shaking like crazy when I started, and I'm kinda glad he wasn't awake to see that. He almost came around a few times, but he always passed out again muttering Chloe's name. The whole mess was just... awkward, and nerve-wracking.

He's still out now, lying where I left him on the table. I give my 'patient' the once-over, to make sure that he's still breathing, and notice that he's shivering a lot. It's a mild, breezy night outside, but it's warm in here, so it's probably not a good thing. I look around and find a heavy gray blanket folded in a cupboard and pull it up to Cal's neck. I don't know how long he's going to be out, and my own brain is crying out for a couple hours of rest, but I know I'm never gonna be able to sleep, not with that psycho out there. Instead, I settle for doing a more intensive search of the clinic, looking for a phone, a radio, whatever, but there's nothing, though I do find a spare jacket in the closet and some heavy duty painkillers in a drawer, which I'm sure Cal will appreciate, the latter a bit more than the former. To my surprise, I find myself actually going to check on Cal again. _Why_, I have no idea. I guess you could chalk it up to the fear of having to do this alone, but I think I'm actually starting to... like the guy... a little. Sort of. Maybe.

I'm not sure I like this newfound benevolence for the hot-chick-stealing midget, but there it is nonetheless. Truth be told, it's kinda difficult not to feel at least a little bit gracious knowing it would be _me_ lying there and not Cal if the idiot hadn't run around to the wrong side of the vehicle. _It should be you, _I think, then I feel even _more_ guilty 'cause I know if I'd been hit, Cal would've done a lot better patching me up than I did for him.

"This is bullshit," I mutter, launching myself from the stool and stalking around the room once more, too restless to sit still. If I sit still, I know I'll start thinking about this Wakefield bullshit again. What the hell is this guy's problem anyway? What do any of us have to do with him? None of this makes any sense, and none of those people deserved to die. If Abby's dad really does have anything to do with this, then that's fucked up too. I don't want to be a part of this shitty island's history or have anything to do with its creepy hick natives... unless they happen to be hot biker chicks named Nikki, of course...

I start to wonder if maybe Nikki would be interested in a guy like me, but this only goes so far before I pull myself out of this fruitless reverie and realize I am actually planning a hot date right in the middle of Slaughterfest 2009. And you know, isn't this just _exactly_ the kind of thinking that's gonna get me killed? This isn't how heroes think, it's how horndogs think. I think I can actually _see_ my mortality rising while my self respect fades away, and that disturbs me, because it leads me to that tacit thought that's been itching to get itself out in the open: why am I still here? Why do I get to live while the others have died? Who the hell decided a guy like me should get to live while nice people like Boone or Beth have to die? They didn't deserve it... I'm a bastard, I push people away, I try to get with my best friend's girl, I'm a vain asshole, and there ain't gonna be any hot blonde weeping over my grave if I died here today. Not like Cal here... God damn it, why wasn't it me?

I'm going down an iffy road here, so I decide to do another search of the clinic. I don't find anything useful this time either, and I wasn't expecting to, but I do manage to find a blue jacket hanging in a closet, and I snatch it for Cal, since I doubt he's gonna wanna put his own back on. _Well, would you look at that?_ I think, surprised by my own thoughtfulness. Maybe I am becoming a better person after all.

When I return to the room, I'm surprised to see Cal up and about, leaning heavily on the counter while searching through a drawer with some pill bottles in it.

"Hey," I say, drawing his attention with a start. "Are you sure you should be up?"

"How long was I out?" Cal asks simply, returning his attention to the drawer.

"Not long. Maybe—an hour?"

"Damn," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut painfully. "We've got to get going—ah!" He seems to find what he's looking for in the drawer, pries the lid open while awkwardly trying not to move his shoulder, and pops three pills into his mouth. Swallowing them dry, he immediately steps away from the counter and stumbles, grabbing the exam table to steady himself. He's not wearing anything from the waist up besides the bulky white bandages I haphazardly wrapped him in, so I toss him the jacket.

"Here, thought you might need this," I say, then add, "And take it easy, will ya? You're gonna ruin all the nice stitchwork I did." But it falls on deaf ears as the Englishman is already making his way towards the door. I roll my eyes but push my irritability aside and move forward to grab an arm to hoist over my shoulder. "At least let me help you," I say, taking the bulk of his weight. This time, he doesn't collapse, and we make it out to the car, though it's slow-going. At the passenger's side, I pause to open the door for Cal and maneuver the injured man inside, but it's awkward, and I end up sort of unceremoniously tossing him in the seat.

"Sully! Careful, mate!" Cal says through gritted teeth.

"How's the shoulder?" I ask, moving to shut the door.

"Yeah, it's not bad," Cal returns quickly, obviously faking a quick recovery, made all the more obvious by the loud groan he allows to escape the moment I slam the passenger's door shut. I take a step backward, grimacing at uncomfortable situation. Evidently, Cal forgot that all the car's windows were shot out before he released what he probably _thought_ was a private moment of weakness.

I could give him a hard time about it, but I don't. It's all in the spirit of my newfound Mr. Nice Guy persona I'm thinking of taking up.

Besides, dude let me dig a bullet out of him without anything to numb it. I think he's earned his Badass Degree for the day, at _least_.

I move around to the driver's seat, unsure of how to approach the topic of first aid. Cal seems pretty out of it still, and singular in his objective to get to the boat that could take us all away from here, but I take a stab anyway. "I, uh, I—I got the bullet out, but I kinda made a mess of it," I admit, feeling painfully inadequate. "You passed out before you gave me any real instructions."

"You did clean the wound, right?" Cal interrupts quickly, taking a peek to inspect the bandages.

"Yeah, yeah, but, the stitches didn't turn out too good," I mutter. "I just kept doing more and more of them until the bleeding stopped. I hope that's cool..." I look at him quickly for confirmation.

Cal just smiles approvingly. "Sounds like you handled it masterfully."

Yeah right, I laugh half-heartedly, 'cause I know I'm being humored, but to be honest I'm pretty grateful for the assurance. I don't even remotely want to be there later when the bandages come off and someone professional inspects my handiwork, but for now, facetious praise will do.

"Hey, Sully?" Cal begins, and I look at him briefly. He's got that look in his eyes like he could possibly spill his foppish little heart out to me in a grand gesture of thanks, and that's something I'd really like to avoid.

"I know," I say, and it is tacitly understood that nothing more needs to be spoken. Thank God for the laconic nature of men. Before this moment, I wasn't even sure if Cal was capable of knowing when to shut his mouth. "We gotta get to the boat," I say moving on to the task at hand. I jiggle the key and the car roars to life a little more easily this time. We pull away from the darkened clinic and not much is said on the drive apart from Cal offering directions from memory. Mostly he just sits there with his head against the seat, eyes closed, breathing slowly, and I know he's trying to manage the pain and be a man about it. He's doing pretty alright in that regard too, but I'll never tell him that.

When we finally reach the harbor where Cal's boat was, I'm the first one out of the car. I lean down to peer inside. "Need any help?" I offer, knowing already what his answer will be.

"Nah, I got it," he says, shifting painfully. "Just—go on ahead. I'll be there in a minute."

It isn't until I find myself practically sprinting over to the fence that I realize this is the first time I've really thought about the sailboat since we left the cannery. With all that happened, my mind hasn't exactly been the place for organized thought. I've been more concerned with my own existential thoughts than productive ones, which I guess isn't all that surprising. My mind always goes to number one, right?

When I reach the fence and see an empty harbor, I try to figure out if I'm even surprised. Had I even given it that much thought before? I don't know what I expected. I guess the idea that we could all sail away to safety without losing any more of our number did seem too easy, right? I mean, look what happened the last time we tried to get away from the island. That local guy was probably strewn about the harbor in a million pieces now.

Cal finally emerges from the car, slamming the door shut behind him and starts walking quickly to where I'm standing. "This is the place right?" I ask him, turning. Cal answers in the affirmative, as I knew he would and I shake my head. "No boat." I turn to look at him. "Looks like we're stuck."

"Thanks to me," Cal adds, looking predictably disappointed with himself. "If I hadn't gone to the wrong side of the car, I wouldn't have been shot."

"Hey, the way I see it, I owe you one. I mean, if you hadn't been there that bullet woulda hit me instead."

"Saving me cost us our way home," Cal insists.

"No we don't know that," I muse, shaking my head. "The sailboat could've been gone for days." I guess I'm not surprised that Saint Vandeusen blames himself for getting shot and ruining our master escape plan, but in retrospect, the whole plan seemed like a long shot to begin with. We never knew for sure the boat would be here. A tiny part of me wonders if Wakefield did have something to do with this, if we might have gotten the boat had we not taken the detour, but it seems doubtful. And there's no point in wondering anyway, I guess. The only thing to do was move on, find something else.

"I just want to get Chloe off this island," Cal bemoans, and a small smile plays on my lips. I know it's tacky, but I just can't help but go there anyway.

"I just want to get Chloe." I pause briefly then turn a sly glance on the Englishman at my side, trying to gauge his reaction, which is somewhere between 'Really, mate?' and 'Are you bloody joking?' Without waiting for him to decide which one to utter, I jab him lightly with my elbow and he gasps, doubling over in pain.

Yeah, despite all this good will I'm trying to generate, I have to admit that still felt pretty good.

Cal just shakes his head irritably and walks back to the car, glaring at me sideways. "Let's get you back to her," I relent, picking myself up off the fence and following. Cal gives me a curious look which I skillfully ignore. I know I may seem inconsistent, but I really mean it this time. I want Chloe to be happy, and if that means keeping Cal alive for now, then I guess I'll have to do that.

I'm already in the driver's seat with my belt on when Cal opens the door. "Has anyone ever told you you're a bastard?" he quips, gingerly sitting himself down.

"Yeah, I've heard it put that way." Cal grimaces and reaches for the pill bottle he'd set on the dash but I reach out to snatch it before he can. "Sorry dude, but you've already popped like six of those in an hour. I'm not pumping your stomach if you OD on Vicodin. You'll just have to tough this one out."

Cal narrows his eyes, but relents, leaning back into the seat miserably. "Bloody bastard..." he mutters.

I can't help but let slip a rueful smile. That's fine,I think. Bastard, I can live with. It's hero I'm having issues wrapping my head around. Maybe I'll get there yet...


End file.
